Is It Dead-find It

Emily Dickinson

417

Is it dead—Find it—
Out of sound—Out of sight—
“Happy”? Which is wiser—
You, or the Wind?
“Conscious”? Won’t you ask that—
Of the low Ground?

“Homesick”? Many met it—
Even through them—This
Cannot testify—
Themself—as dumb—

Next 10 Poems

• Emily Dickinson : Is It Too Late To Touch You, Dear?
• Emily Dickinson : Is It True, Dear Sue?
• Emily Dickinson : It Always Felt To Me-a Wrong
• Emily Dickinson : It Bloomed And Dropt, A Single Noon
• Emily Dickinson : It Came At Last But Prompter Death
• Emily Dickinson : It Came His Turn To Beg-
• Emily Dickinson : It Can't Be 'summer'!
• Emily Dickinson : It Ceased To Hurt Me, Though So Slow
• Emily Dickinson : It Did Not Surprise Me
• Emily Dickinson : It Don't Sound So Terrible-quite-as It Did

Previous 10 Poems

• Emily Dickinson : Is Immortality A Bane
• Emily Dickinson : Is Heaven A Physician?
• Emily Dickinson : Is Bliss Then, Such Abyss
• Emily Dickinson : Inconceivably Solemn!
• Emily Dickinson : In Winter In My Room
• Emily Dickinson : In Thy Long Paradise Of Light
• Emily Dickinson : In This Short Life
• Emily Dickinson : In Snow Thou Comest-
• Emily Dickinson : In Rags Mysterious As These
• Emily Dickinson : In Many And Reportless Places